


In the Hands of Innocence

by Straight_Outta_Hobbiton



Category: Numb3rs (TV)
Genre: Bedsharing, Brother Feels, Family Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Nightmares, School Shootings, The Set Up To A Lot of Mental Fuckery, Trauma, first kill, off-screen violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-08
Updated: 2019-10-08
Packaged: 2020-11-27 06:48:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20944091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Straight_Outta_Hobbiton/pseuds/Straight_Outta_Hobbiton
Summary: There was an active shooter on CalSci's campus, 'was' being the operative word, in this instance.





	In the Hands of Innocence

**Author's Note:**

> Set somewhere around Season 2.

The rush of emotion that floods Larry chest is overwhelming, frightening, even. He’s moving before he can think better of it, shouldering his way past the officers lining the perimeter of the building to make a beeline for Charles as he staggers down the steps, his face bloodless and pale and his eyes blank. There’s blood everywhere, filling Larry’s nostrils with the scent of death even as he gathers Charlie up into his arms, ignoring the stiffness in the younger man’s back as his fingers clamp down on his neck and pull him forward, his chin finding Charlie’s shoulder.

There are a lot of things that Larry wants to say, a lot of things he probably should say, but they tangle together on his tongue, striking him dumb as slowly, Charlie pulls away, sinking onto the steps like his knees simply 

“Charles—” Larry’s voice cracks. He stops, clears his throat, and tries again. “Charles, what happened?”

Charlie stares up at him and doesn’t speak. Larry touches him again, heedless of the terrible tackiness that sticks their fingers together as he forces the rag from Charlie’s grip and takes his hands in his own.

“You’re cold,” Larry says, searching Charlie’s expression for something less than terrifying. “You’re in shock.”

“Probably,” Charlie admits distantly. His eyes aren’t quite focused on Larry, almost like he’s looking through him.

“Charles?”

Charlie blinks. His eyes move back to Larry.

“I want a cigarette,” he says.

Larry pauses.

“Charles, I didn’t think you smoked,” he says carefully.

Charlie twitches.

“I don’t.”

  
  


*.*

  
  


Charlie’s usual t-shirt and button-down lay in a pile at his feet where he’s seated on the steps of his office building, Larry hovering nervously over his shoulder. There are spots of blood on his undershirt and more on his khakis, smears of it on his cheeks and arms and neck from where someone— the shooter— had tried to fight him, tried to fight his help.

He’s smoking, something Don can’t remember ever seeing him do. His fingers are a tacky, cracking brown as he brings the cigarette mechanically to his mouth and breathes, eyes unfocused as he stares listlessly at the ground, apparently unaware of the officers rushing around him.

“Charlie?”

He looks up at his brother’s voice, and his expression is— unbearable. Don makes a beeline for him, his hands finding Charlie’s shoulders as he falls to his knees, looking for injuries he’s already been assured aren’t there.

“I’m fine,” Charlie says hoarsely, and it’s a lie if Don’s ever heard one. “Don, I—”

Don doesn’t care. He drags Charlie forward, ignoring his brother’s surprised grunt as he yanks him into a tight hug, burying his nose in his hair with a shaky, relieved gasp.

Charlie struggles for a moment, then gives in, leaning into Don’s chest with a quiet sob as his hands find the back of his shirt and twist. He’s shaking, Don realizes as he rubs a hand over Charlie’s spine. Shock or adrenaline? Don’s betting on both, judging by the cold sweat that’s soaked the flimsy fabric of his brother’s undershirt under his fingers.

“Did they take your statement?” he asks roughly. “Charlie?”

Charlie nods but doesn’t look up, his forehead pressed to Don’s chest.

Well, that’s good enough for him.

Charlie’s shaky when Don helps him to his feet, but he can stand on his own, so Don lets it be, nudging him towards the black SUV Don had commandeered in his haste to get to Charlie. Shock makes him thick-fingered and clumsy— Don has to buckle his seatbelt for him, which Charlie allows without complaint because, well, he’s not really in a position to argue.

The ride to the house is silent. Charlie stays curled up in the passenger seat for the entirety of it, eyes fixed on a point somewhere out the window. The car smells like sweat and blood. Don turns up the air and rolls down the windows and carefully doesn’t say anything.

“Dad’s gonna flip,” Charlie says, voice distant as they pull up in front of the house. Which, yeah, he probably will. Don hadn’t thought of that, but now that he is, it’s sort of turning his stomach into knots.

“We were always worried about the FBI’s side of things,” he says, running a hand through his hair agitatedly. “We never thought—”

“Yeah.” Charlie doesn’t say anything else, and after a minute, Don reaches over to unbuckle his seatbelt.

“Come on,” he says. “You need a shower.”

  
  


*.*

  
  


At some point, Don hears the water shut off and the creak of the upstairs bathroom door opening and closing again. He and his father sit in absolute silence in the living room, eyes glued to the ceiling as they listen to Charlie shuffle into his room, the familiar thumps and knocks soothing the aftermath-anxiety that keeps Don stiff-backed and white-knuckled where he clutches at the arms of his chair.

Eventually, there’s the final thud of Charlie collapsing into bed. It’s barely four, the sun still shining through the living room curtains, but Don can’t think of anything else he’d rather his brother be doing. Asleep in his bed, at least, Don knows he’s safe. He’s safe, and Don can breathe.

“You hear about these kinds of things happening all over the country,” Alan says abruptly, eyes finding Don’s as he breaks the silence. “But I never thought— I hadn’t ever really considered—”

Don clears his throat.

“Yeah,” he says. “I— I didn’t, either.”

“Charlie shot him, didn’t he?” Alan doesn’t miss the way Don flinches. “Don’t lie to me— I can see it all over your face. Where’d he get the gun?”

Don swallows.

“He said he’d been keeping it in his office, in a desk drawer,” he says, looking away. “Just in case.”

“In case of this?”

Probably not— at least, not exactly. Don imagines Charlie had pictured it differently— an FBI threat they didn’t manage to neutralize before it got too close, perhaps.

“I don’t know.” Don shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

Don doesn’t know because Don wasn’t there. He knows what the first responders told him— that Charlie put three bullets in the kid’s chest before he went down, saving the lives of every student who’d had the misfortune of being caught in the narrow hallway leading to Charlie’s office at the cost of the shooter’s. He knows Charlie had moved to help the moment it was clear the kid couldn’t shoot, kicking the gun away as he tried to stem the bleeding with his own shirt, to keep him alive just until EMTs arrived.

He knows Charlie failed. He knows it was the shooter’s blood that stained Charlie’s face and hands when he’d found him on the steps of his building.

“Good.”

Don looks up, brow furrowed in confusion. His father fidgets, jaw set as he reaches for his drink— whisky, for once, to calm his nerves.

“Between Charlie and the shooter, I’m glad it’s Charlie who walked away from it,” Alan says, glancing up at the ceiling before meeting Don’s eyes. “He’s alive, and he’s home for me to worry about. That’s all that matters to me.”

Don nods, bringing his beer to his lips.

“He’ll be alright,” he says, because that’s probably what his father’s looking for right now. “We can take care of him.”

“Yes we will,” Alan agrees, and without further adieu, he turns on the television, flicking through the channels until he finds the beginning of a basketball game to fill the quiet.

He doesn’t ask if Don will spend the night. He doesn’t have to.

  
  


*.*

  
  


Don doesn’t know what wakes him, initially. He lays there in the dark, the leftovers of a bad dream making his skin crawl as he blinks blearily up at the ceiling of his childhood bedroom.

There’s a thump, and then a whimper. Don stiffens, twisting to stare at the blank wall separating his room and Charlie’s. There’s a beat of silence, and then another whimper, this one louder.

Don’s on his feet and out the door in seconds, yanking open his brother’s door with far more force than necessary.

Charlie is dreaming, shuddering and twitching as he tries to fight whatever monster’s found him in his sleep. Another whimper has Don moving, sliding onto the empty half of the bed and reaching out to find Charlie’s shoulder in the dark.

Charlie gasps awake, eyes flying open as he lashes out, landing a glancing blow to Don’s chest.

“Charlie, hey, it’s me,” Don says soothingly, his grip gentling as Charlie slows, chest heaving as he stares wildly into the dark, searching for his brother’s face.

“Don?”

“Yeah, buddy, it’s me.”

Charlie rolls over, blindly reaching out to wraps his arms around Don’s waist and bury his face in his stomach. The position isn’t an unfamiliar one— Don’s been in exactly this spot a thousand times, a living, breathing teddy bear for his brother to cling to until he can control himself again. Sighing, Don lets himself relax against the headboard, one hand moving up to rub Charlie’s back through the thin cotton of his pajama shirt.

Neither of them speak. Don wants to ask him what he’d dreamt about, ask after details that might clue him in on exactly how bad off Charlie is, but he keeps his questions to himself. It’s not hard to guess, after all, and Charlie doesn’t seem to be in the mood for questions right now.

It feels like forever before Charlie relaxes his grip, body going limp where he’s curled up against Don’s side. He’s heavier than Don remembers, and while he’s certain it wouldn’t take much to slide out from under Charlie’s weight and make his way back to his own room, he finds himself settling more comfortably into the mattress, content to lie back and watch his brother breathe.

(Charlie isn’t the only one who’s been having nightmares. Don’s just more used to them, is all.)

The floorboards outside of Charlie’s room creak, and when Don cranes his neck to look, his father is standing in the open door. It’s too dark to see his expression, and when he doesn’t speak, Don lets his head drop back down into the pillows.

From over his shoulder, Don hears his father move to shut the door, the quiet _ snick! _ of the mechanisms clicking back into place signalling his approval. Sighing, Don presses his nose to his brother’s hair and breathes in, the scent of that strawberry kid’s shampoo that Charlie likes so much filling his nostrils as he tries very hard to quell the horrible, what-if thoughts creeping through his brain like vines.

Charlie snuffles against his ribs, burrowing closer in his sleep. He seems more comfortable with Don there, like that’s all he needs for everything to turn out alright, even in his dreams.

Don shuts his eyes. He keeps them shut until morning.

He doesn’t sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> This is all just one long excuse for me to write Eppes-cuddles, don't mind me.


End file.
